


caught up in it all

by PersephoneHemingway



Series: pH [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Anxiety, Ballerina!Reader, Ballet, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brother/Sister Incest, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Flowers, Fluff and Angst, Fruit, Hades/Persephone - Freeform, Holmes!reader, Holmescest if you squint - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Incest, Injury, Kidnapping, Multi, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, Mythology References, No Eurus Holmes, Not Britpicked, Not Canon Compliant, POV Second Person, Praise Kink, Reader-Insert, Self-Indulgent, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sibling Incest, but i don't really know what i'm talking about, eventually, just enough ballet terminology to make it look like i know what i'm talking about, loving use of a graduated cylinder, or if you just have eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-12-27 02:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21111446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephoneHemingway/pseuds/PersephoneHemingway
Summary: in which you are ballerina and beloved sister persephone holmes





	1. flower girl

**Author's Note:**

> i've got a weakness, and that weakness is sherlock sister fic. bear with me.

The game was on, and it took Sherlock, John, and Lestrade to the ballet. John and Lestrade expected a long night of cynical crack comments from Sherlock about the dancers and the nature of ballet in general, but he stayed surprisingly quiet and respectful—one might even say Sherlock was somewhat _engaged_ by the performance.

If that weren’t unusual enough, after the program, Lestrade pointed out what he assumed was another odd coincidence:

"Sherlock, don't you think that main dancer at the end looked remarkably similar to you?"

"Don't be stupid Graham, of course she does."

John and Lestrade turned to each other in a moment of confusion.

"Sherlock, what do you mean, why would we _expect_ her to look like you?" Sherlock crooked his head and flicked his eyes toward John.

"She's my younger sister."

Their jaws dropped.

"You have a younger sister!?"

"How did I not know about this!?"

Sherlock suddenly lunged toward a waiting bench and plucked a resting bouquet of flowers up and away from the lady sitting next to them. He gave them to the ballerina approaching behind John and Lestrade. 

"Percy."

You sighed out, "Sherlock..." and handed the bundle back to the lady who'd just walked up to complain.

"Sorry about that, my brother's, well... my brother."

"Well he ought to buy you a bouquet himself! You were wonderful, dear!" The lady shifted the bouquet into the crook of one arm as if she were holding a baby and squeezed your fingers with her free hand.

Your cheeks pinkened. "Thank you. Are those for Abigail?"

"Oh! Yes!"

"She'll be out in a bit. She's currently fighting with a vending machine for a pack of Skittles."

"Oh, well thank you!" You exchanged smiles and the lady went back to her bench.

"How did you know who—" John was cut off by a snarky voice touched by a hint of sentiment.

"Still just a soloist, sister mine? You ought to be principal by now."

You scowled and turned behind you to accept the miniature bouquet of wildflowers Mycroft presented you with.

"You're lucky you still do this," lifting the wildflowers to sniff, "or I'd have to be angry with you."

"Don't be silly, he doesn't pick them himself anymore, he sends someone to do it for him."

"Sherlock!"

Your eyes flicked up and narrowed at Mycroft, who almost looked _guilty_. "You're right."

"Of course I'm—"

You shoved your little wildflower bouquet at John, let out a loud huff, and stormed off, tutu aflutter.

"Persephone, wait!" Mycroft began a brisk walk after you (because gentlemen don't run).

&

The Baker Street boys returned to where Mary was helping Mrs. Hudson declutter her flat.

John gave Mary a quick peck on the lips and handed her the little wildflower bouquet.

"What are these for?"

"Sherlock has a sister."

"Oh, well, yes of course, I knew that. She's in the Royal, yes?"

"Yes,” John squinted, “but how do_ you_ know that?"

"Oh, I used to go to the ballet every other weekend. She's really good—an intense dancer, she was a stunning _firebird_—but what does Sherlock's sister have to do with the wildflowers?"

"Oh, she got into some argument with Mycroft and somehow the flowers ended up with me. I can't believe Sherlock didn't tell me he had a younger sister!"

"Well, he didn't exactly tell you he had an older brother either, did he? You just found out. I mean you said you met because he kidnapped you, yeah?"

"I guess you're right... anyway, ladies like flowers right? I just thought you might appreciate them more than I would."

"Aw, you know you could've lied and said you picked them for me yourself. Missed an opportunity there, you did." Mary bopped John on the nose and whisked off to the kitchen to find them a little bowl.

"So Sherlock, was the ballet even related to the case at all? Or did you just need an excuse to see your sister?" John sported a wry smile.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John."

"Well then what were we looking for?"

A text tone. 

_I assume you came to my performance for this -pH_

Sherlock spun his phone around to show John the attached picture. It was a list of addresses and dates in mismatched pen taped to a cement wall.

"Oh. What is that?"

"Percy once told me the dancers keep a list of all the places their pointe shoes give out for good for the hell of it. The art collective where the murder took place doubles as a dance studio and there were a few pairs of wrecked shoes in the back corner. Might be witnesses."

John nodded. Sherlock's phone went off a few more times.

_Did you like it, at least? You haven't come to see me dance in so long -pH  
_

_I miss you. -pH  
_

Sherlock didn't know what to say without oozing _sentiment_. He gave in.

_You were stunning, as expected. -SH_

_I suppose I missed you too._ -SH

&

To: Mymy; Sherly

_They gave me Persephone! I finally get to dance Persephone! You have to come! Opening is November 23rd! I'll never forgive you if you don't show! -pH_

The first response came within a minute.

_Might have a case -SH  
_

_But I guess I could make the time anyway -SH  
_

_For you. -SH_

You beamed at your phone. You knew how he felt about sitting through long nights of ballet and were worried he'd try and dodge you for a case or experiment—but he’d said he’d come. _For you._

Mycroft always made sure to see you dance each new performance once; you didn't even have to give him the schedule (lately he'd been using them for classified diplomatic meetings, but he wouldn't tell you that). It kept you on your toes—you never knew which night he was going to be watching so you had to be perfect for them all.

So you knew he'd see you dance it eventually, but you really wanted him to be there for the debut of _Persephone Holmes dancing Persephone.  
_

When you were eight, Mummy and Father couldn't make it to a certain recital so your brothers went without them. You'd meant it to be a surprise—your first solo. Afterwards in the lobby, Mycroft realized they didn't have anything for you so in a panic he ran outside and picked as many wildflowers as he could so you wouldn't be upset. And from then on Mycroft would always meet you in the lobby with a little bouquet of freshly picked wildflowers.

He doted on you. You’d always considered him your number one supporter, especially in ballet. Which is why when you received the following response, you were hurt.

_This is the work number of Mycroft Holmes. If he is indeed who you intended to contact, please tell me your name and I'll take the message for him. And please try to write professionally._

You almost threw your phone across the room. You began tapping out _yeah, tell him percy says fuck you,_ but backpedaled.

_Actually, it might be better we have this discussion face-to-face. Do you happen to know where he is right now? -pH_

The assistant did, and surprisingly, they told you.

&

You stepped out of the cab, took a deep breath, and put on your best _Sherlock_ face. You then burst loudly into the Diogenes Club and stormed up the stairs.

You got plenty of mean looks and someone even had the audacity to try and stop you on your rampage—you _shushed_ him into submission.

You opened the door.

"Mycroft Holmes! You changed your personal phone number and didn't tell me! What, I'm not good enough for you anymore? Not important enough? The Prime Minister has your personal but now I have to be filtered through _an assistant_!?"

Mycroft looked exhausted.

"Persephone, you're making a scene."

"Oh what, am I embarrassing you now? Worried they'll all think this is a lovers' spat and ruin your reputation, _Iceman_?" You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Your eyes snapped open and your voice was chillingly calm. "Don't bother coming."

You spun on your heel and left, but not before Mycroft caught your shoulders dropping into a miserable slouch.

That was strike two. He didn't know if you'd forgive a third.

&

You stormed through the doors into 221b with no resistance—after all, locks don't hold up very well against tornados.

"Who does he think he is, the British Government!?"

"Yes." Sherlock didn't even look up from his laptop.

You flung your body into a sofa with great melodrama.

"I just want him to care about me."

"You know he does, Percy, he adores you."

"But I'm not a priority. He's busy and I'm one of the first lines in the yearly budget that's not important enough to keep around when he's crunching the numbers."

"You're being petty."

"And greedy, and selfish, I know! But I don't care! He's my brother and he should be paying more attention to me!"

"He always manages to see each of your shows once. That's more than I usually do."

"But this- this is different! This is _Persephone_! This is one thing I wanted to ask for on _my terms _and he’s already cut me off from directly accessing him. He only ever makes time for me when it's convenient for him. I'm not a set date, I'm a floating meeting that can be pushed or pulled by _his assistant_ depending on his schedule. He didn't even tell me he changed his personal to another work line..."

"Is that what this is all about? Percy. He didn't tell me either."

"You deliberately use his work lines to bother him! Plus Anthea and everyone else knows you jump to priority one if you send your SOS. You don't _need_ his personal number to get his attention! You figured it out yourself anyway!"

"If it took you so long to notice, you obviously didn't need his personal number either."

"I-" Your head drops as does your voice. "He used to have it set so I was always patched straight through. My texts would be sent to _him_, not just to ‘his desk.’ He'd answer me irregularly during the cracks between appointments. I mean… he didn't even tell the assistants to recognize my signature…"

"Percy, you _know_ he likely just forgot. You're blowing this up to be more than it is—and I _hate_ defending him."

"I know," your phone chirped and your eyes flicked down to a text from an unknown number with Mycroft's initials. "I know. I'll call him, I know I'm reactive."

"Come by again later, I wrote you another solo piece."

"Ooh! Thanks Sherlock!" Your face launched the brightest smile at him before it fell back to concern. 

&

A few taps, a swipe, and a short wait—he picked up.

"Persephone."

"My,"

"To what do I owe the pleasure, sister dear?"

"I know I've been touchy, forget everything I said. Please come, I want you to come."

"Oh, Percy."

"Please My, I'm sorry, I'm- I know you're busy, and I was just-"

"Persephone, you know I was going to come anyway. I know I haven't been giving you as much time as I used to..."

"I- it's fine, I mean you're basically running the country so..."

"You're more important to me than the country, Persephone, I'm sorry if I haven't been making that clear lately."

"Me and Sherlock?"

"Of course, sister dear."

"Love you, My..."

"Love you too, sweet girl. Now go to the studio and rehearse—I know you'll want to be especially good for me, hm?"

"Yes, My." He could hear the blush in your voice.

"Good." He swiped out of the call, and you remembered how to breathe.

&

You cleared as much space as you could by pushing the furniture to the sides of the flat and stepped into fourth position.

"It's more contemporary, as usual."

"Okay, go ahead."

Sherlock took his violin bow to the strings in a steady thrum of long tones that soon evolved into a low repeating pattern layered with variations.

You stretched her limbs through extensions and collapsed into drawbacks—your emotions were somewhere between shy and reckless.

It suited you.

Mary and John came in halfway through your improv with Chinese takeout. John was defeated at the state of the room, but Mary didn't seem bothered by it at all—she just crawled her way across the clutter and curled herself into John's armchair before opening up her box of fried rice.

John sighed and followed suit, ending up perched on the edge of the coffee table with his legs out of the way.

You _adored_ it when Sherlock composed for you. He's even helped you choreograph your solos—you feel closest to Sherlock when you collaborate. 

You'd improv for the first runthrough, and then Sherlock would give you notes for what he envisioned through the rest. 

You were a quarter through the second run when you stood still and interrupted.

"Oh, Sher, was the address of the murder on the list?”

His bow parted with the strings. "Oh, yes. Twice. Red ink 13th line down, and purple crayon on the 17th."

"Hm. Well I can tell you the crayon is Clara for sure." You stepped over to the coffee table for Sherlock's phone. You unlocked it and found the picture you sent.

"The red is in Florence's handwriting. Need their phone numbers?"

"I'll just tag along for your practice tomorrow."

"If you insist." You moved back to where you left off, and Sherlock kept playing.

&

"Persephone! Solo rehearsal in studio 4!"

"On it!" You turned to Sherlock. "Florence should be in studio 2, and Clara will be snacking on a bench in the hallway."

He nodded once and you skipped off to bash in your shoes.

You spanked them against the concrete wall for flexibility, scraped up the soles for traction, then tied them up and shoved them into your Uggs before meeting yourself in the mirror of studio 4 across the building. You looked yourself in the eye and stretched your leg so your right ankle rested on the barre.

You pulled up YouTube and got down to business. 

&

"Okay, so we know you practically have all versions of _Persephone_ already in your repertoire, so we're mixing up the choreography to show you at your best. It’ll be set to Stravinsky’s music, of course."

It was hard for you to keep your stoic Holmes' composure when you were buzzing with excitement.

"So you start in the garden of Balanchine’s Persephone,"

“Kicking it off classic, naturally.”

“Just get into position, Perse.”

&

The Hades to your Persephone was Abel. He was a strong, quiet, gentlemanly type who danced like water and adapted just as well. He knew you well—what you needed, what you wanted to show—and you’d never had to say a word. He’d watched your eyes, and your hands, and he’d never passed judgment. He helped you be the Prima you wanted Sherlock and Mycroft to see. He was the best dance partner you could ask for.

“Most of your partner work with Abel will have its basis in Ashton’s’s work, but we’re also going to have you two improv a bit and set some of the choreo from there…” When the director looked up from where he was plugging his phone into the speaker system, the two of you were already marking the movement of the duet he’d texted the two of you to look at the previous night.

You never disappointed.

&

“Okay, we decided to go very motherly during the opening of your dance with Demeter. There’s lots of hand-holding, guiding, teaching… the shift comes after you lay down to rest your head in her lap.”

“Let me guess, that’s about when Persephone spots the narcissus flower, giving her that glimpse into Hades’ suffering souls?”

“Spot on, Persephone.”

“And of course, a springtime girl can’t go on without trying to help.”

“And that will lead into the falling sequence as you chase the flower into the underworld, and the shades will offer their bounties…”

“Please tell me real fruit is involved.”

“Real fruit is involved.”

“I love you so much.”

“Right, so the corps will be surrounding you, flighty, offering you fruits and flowers. I want you to take a bite of something as you dance. Just be sure to end the movement near the front of stage left where Petra will be holding the narcissus—Abel will then come out for you from the back, stage right…”

&

After a week or so of private part-by-part practice, the rehearsals got larger as the company began to piece the performance together. You stretched from leg to leg in your warmers, center stage, as the director addressed you.

“For the next movement, we’re taking heavily from Curry’s interpretation of Stravinsky’s orchestral melodrama. You know he used puppets and dancers interchangeably—this is when Persephone is the most manipulated by outside forces. They’re negotiating what will be the creation of the seasons. A lot of the choreo has you flinging yourself across the stage between Demeter, Zeus, and Hades as they push and pull. Very windy—the corps will be closing in and weaving through the space. It’ll close with you collapsing into Hades’ arms…”

&

Opening night.

You were backstage pressing your fingers to the opposite wrist like My would, checking your pulse so you could regain control—you never liked how your heart would be racing when Mycroft was always so calm.

You tapped at your wrist slower than your current bpm, watched as the lights adjusted and the orchestra warmed up. You shifted your weight between your feet, stretched your ankles, tipped your toes.

You were buzzing.

And then the music started and you were still. You waited as the garden came to life with the corps dancing springtime. You dropped into you focus and became a different Persephone, with awe in her eyes. You peeked out from the curtain and dashed across the stage before looking to the sky, and then out to the audience.

The first four eyes you met were your brothers'.

And you gave them a show.

&

After your opening solo was a short pas de deux with Demeter, danced by Abigail.

You complemented each other well.

When you exited the stage, Hades entered, having been watching and admiring from the wings. He flew through his introductory solo as you adjusted your flower crown and changed, just in time to step back out with Demeter as Hades finished.. Now you were in yellow instead of white.

Once you’d ended the second mother-daughter duet and lay yourself down in Demeter’s lap, the spotlight hit you, blinding, as you spotted the narcissus.

You could feel their eyes on you.

All of the eyes in the theatre—and there were four that mattered.

And they were on you.

You fluttered between the corps dancers, sniffing a rose here, plucking a strawberry there.

One of the younger dancers spun close with a peach outstretched toward you, and you took it. You tested its weight between your palms, held it up to the sky to look at it in wonder; then you brought it down to your lips and consumed a generous mouthful of peach, doe-eyes flicking to Mycroft’s as you swallowed.

He had been telling you to eat more fruit, after all.

You smiled bright and handed the bitten peach back to the shade who’d offered it to you, wiping the juices from your chin with your whole arm to present an endearing innocence.

You then spotted the dancer with your flower and moved on.

&

There were four major dances in the ballet that featured you and Hades—your meeting, your abduction, your coronation, and the winter’s end farewell allegro before the pas de trois when Hades hands you back to Demeter for the rebirth of spring.

You were turning and yearning and reaching—tension in your arms and legs, bent over and then extending your back to arch, lifting your neck, exposing it to his teeth…

During most of your lifts you’d look out again to your brothers and hope that they were imagining themselves as Hades—chasing you, catching you, dancing with you—making you theirs. You hoped they knew that you were _their _Persephone, in more than name. They had you completely—and you told them so with your body. You knew they’d get the message, if they hadn’t already.

You’ve never been very careful about hiding your affections from them.

And now you finally had the chance to show them your _Persephone_—there were thousands in the audience and you were telling them you were _theirs_.

&

The Holmes siblings were not well-adapted for handling sentiment, but you’d poured your feelings without abandon through your sweat instead of shrouding them in doubt me/don’t doubt me rhetoric.

And at this point your endorphins were too high to worry about consequences—you’d always meant to “tell them” if the universe ever gave you a shot at dancing your namesake ballet.

_Congratulations_ followed you out to the lobby where Mycroft shifted awkwardly between his feet and Sherlock slouched while pacing the room.

Mycroft shot you a shy smile when he saw you, one hand stuffed in a pocket and the other full of wildflowers.

“Persephone.”

Sherlock stopped and turned at Mycroft’s voice, and you darted up to fling your arms around them both. You quickly took a step back and handed Sherlock the narcissus you’d followed to the underworld.

You then took the wildflowers from Mycroft and immediately addressed his flash of disappointment that your gifted flower wasn’t for him.

“Oh come on, we both know Sherlock’s the narcissist here.”

Mycroft smirked, and twirled a finger through a wisp of hair that had come loose from your bobby pins.

You cradled Mycroft’s wildflowers in your palms and sniffed them dramatically. You glanced up at him softly.

“Thank you, My.”

Sherlock tucked the flower into his coat pocket and made sure the petals still showed. He broke the moment.

“Hades was a little handsy though, wasn’t he?”

You laughed.

“Oh, brothers mine, no need to be jealous—it’s just a pas de deux, boys. You won’t lose me so easily.”

Sherlock bent down to whisper, “You’re _ours_, Persephone.” You turned to him and blinked, a little dazed, and saw he was earnest. When you looked then to Mycroft, his expression was the same. It was quite rare the two were in agreement, but if it were going to be over anything, naturally it would be for you.

“Well, Hades,” you curtsied to Mycrorft, “and Hades,” you curtsied to Sherlock. “Queen of the Underworld sounds rather nice to me.”

&

Sherlock has the flower in a calculated solution of plant food and water filling a graduated cylinder by the end of the night.


	2. bends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they've been trying to reconnect.  
a kidnap, a rescue, an anxiety attack.  
they get closer than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a drabble.

The brothers Holmes were missing, and Lestrade didn't call you. You'd had to call him.

The doors were broken down and Lestrade rushed in with plenty of force behind him. Several shots went off before the kidnappers were all taken down and restrained.

They clearly hadn't expected anyone to find them, or they'd have had more guards who actually knew what they were doing—the men on the ground were basically just decoy bodies to fake their numbers.

Definitely a political thing.

"Hello, friends. Nice try, but it seems like you forgot a Holmes."

&

"Everyone just thinks I'm a pretty little dancer, which seems to have worked in my favor today."

Sherlock stared. "How?"

"How'd I find you? Oh, well from your clue wall and the paperwork I stole from Mycroft's office—by the way, you'll have to replace your window latch—I narrowed down and triangulated possible locations based on the abduction sites. That left me with seven options so I ran the probabilities and did some digging, like, literal digging over by the train tracks. Then I called in a few favors to confirm, went to rehearsal, rented a truck, texted Lestrade the address, and met him here—shit, I just realized I haven't eaten in forty-eight hours. I knew I forgot something..."

The Holmes brothers were struggling to keep their unaffected composure.

"Oh, and My, I coincidentally ran into the prime minister and got him to agree to the amendments you wanted on the security bill. You'll just have to meet with him tomorrow for signatures."

Mycroft's eyes widened.

"It seems you've both forgotten I'm a Holmes too." Your hands were on your hips. "I’m not as loud or obnoxious about it the way you two are, but you know I’m just as smart, right?”

&

Once Lestrade finishes explaining the situation to John, he turns to you, baffled: "If you can do all that, why don't you have a job like Sherlock or Mycroft?"

"Ha, why don't I? Why _would_ I? Why would I want to be surrounded by tragedy and death all the time? International incident after international incident, crime after crime. It sounds exhausting. I'm a great dancer, and I love dancing. I don't need money, Mummy and Mycroft take care of all that. There's no reason I should work my brain into delirium trying to do what my brothers do when I'll never be as good or as smart as them anyway. Mostly I just want my head to shut up. Performing helps me turn it all off, lower the noise. I can be someone else. I don't have to think—that's what rehearsal's for, to put it in muscle memory. I just have to _move._ Sure, there's still work and pressure and injury and time, but it's not like anyone's depending on me for their _life._ That's too much for me—I learned that early. I'm a med school dropout, you know."

John was stunned. He'd never heard you say so much at once before, especially when all the information was character-defining.

"Yeah, sorry, I'll let you process that. I'm a little strung out, just ignore everything I said." You jumped down from the desk and made a swift exit out the door. Stray papers scattered after you.

&

They sat facing away from each other, John at the dinner table and Sherlock laying on the sofa.

"You know Percy doesn't feel like she's good enough for you?"

"Mm, what was that, did you say something, John?"

A sigh. "Percy. Your sister. Did you know she has anxiety?"

"Everyone experiences anxiety, John."

"No, I mean I think she might need medication."

Sherlock stopped dead. "What did you just say?"

"You didn't see her last night, Sherlock. She can hide it well, and I thought I was just seeing things at first, but she was a wreck. I think she needs help, but she won't ask for it. Too proud, like you."

At first John thought Sherlock's lack of response meant he'd dropped the conversation, but when he turned around he could see Sherlock had fallen into his mind palace, running through every previous interaction with his sister searching for evidence.

"Anxiety..." He paused, and looked up at the ceiling to yell, "Mycroft! Did you hear that!? Come over now!"

&

"Percy, why didn't you _say_ anything?"

"You know we'd do anything for you."

"I- I didn't want you t-o have to.. I'm supposed to be able to handle it.."

"Percy, you know that's not how mental illness works."

"It's not like it'll work!" Your patience broke, and your stammer shot to a shout.

"It won't stop! It doesn't ever stop!" By now your eyes were watering heavy and full. "You never warned me that _it doesn't ever stop_!"

"Percy, I-"

"And nothing touches you! It's never looked like you were ever even bothered! It's all so simple to you, to both of you! Something you can just filter out when you don't need it and process flawlessly when you do, but _I can't shut it off!_ And it's so easy for you, how could I ask without looking like a goldfish to you!? I couldn't! I couldn't risk ruining what you think of me when all I ever wanted was to catch up to you! I _adore_ you!"

Sherlock took this moment to step in. "Percy, I'm addicted to cocaine."

Your face wiped clean. "Wh-What? Sherlock—!"

"See, I'm not as perfect as you think. Sometimes it's too loud, sometimes I'm too slow. The drugs make up the difference. It's not so easy for me to keep up either, Percy. It's not just you—there's nothing wrong with you.. it's just.. how we _are_. Holmes. Mycroft's the only one any good at managing it, and even he has cracks sometimes. Really."

Pet shop eyes. "My? Really?"

A sigh. "Yes, really. Of course, really." Mycroft lay his hand in your hair.

"Percy, you never had to work so hard to catch up to us—we never thought you were _behind_."

"But you tease Sherlock about it all the time! With your _'I'm the smart one, Sherlock, too slow, do keep up_! quips and all!"

"Because he knows baiting me will make me angry enough that I'll get off my arse and actually use my obnoxiously gifted brain."

You and Mycroft scoff.

"On bluer days it can get to me, yes, but for me it's more of a motivator. Makes me want to prove him wrong."

"And I know he can do better; that's why I say so. I don't mean it for harm."

"Really Persephone, it's the same for you, we've _always_ adored you!"

"You've always been _more_ than enough. You don't have to pass standards for us to love you."

"Because _we already love you_!"

"..I didn't know.."

"It was our fault for not telling you."

"I just wanted you to.."

"We know, love. we know."

No louder than a breath, "Notice me.."

The brothers were curled up rather affectionately around you.

"It's just.. My, you left, and then Sherlock left... it hurt more than I thought it would. You left and you forgot about me and it was too much. I couldn't take it."

"We've been neglecting you, dear. There's no excuse."

The three of you stayed in a tangle a moment longer.

"So, My, you have vices? Do tell me more."


	3. the break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an injury, an aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this one's in 3rd person instead of 2nd because i'm lazy and it was originally written this way.  
drabble.

Mycroft received an urgent message from Lestrade and arrived at Scotland Yard within ten minutes. He didn't know what happened, but he knew it was Persephone or Sherlock, and that was enough to worry him.

"Which is it?"

Lestrade sighed. "She's in my office. We're still trying to piece together what happened. Physically, she's stable but still pretty shaken. She's not speaking, we were hoping you could get her to. She'll only nod or shake her head for us, but we need a full report from her."

"What else do you know?"

"She was kidnapped by some enemy of Sherlock's. At 19:42 she set off an explosion, but we don't know how she did it or what she used. We don't know if her intent was to kill, distract, escape, or catch our attention. At some point her right leg was broken."

Mycroft's eyes went wide. "Her leg was-!?" He ran to the door of Lestrade's office and flung it open. Percy was sitting on Lestrade's desk staring down at her leg in a cast. Her eyes were puffy and she was so, so tired.

She looked up at Mycroft's intrusion and croaked out, "Don't tell Sherlock! He'll blame himself and he shouldn't! I don't want him to."

"And how exactly do you expect to hide a broken leg, sister mine?"

"I'll avoid him until it heals, and you can cover for me!"

"Nice try. You know he'll find out anyway, he's probably on his way here for the case now."

"I know.. it's just.. it's _not his fault_ and he's gonna take it like it is. He'll feel responsible because of who took me."

"Percy, just like we help you, we're going to help him through it. Make him see."

She gave the smallest of nods.

"Now who took you, Percy?"

&

Sherlock was running up (John and Mary at his heels) just as Mycroft opened the door to exit Lestrade’s office. Persephone was still sat on the desk, fingers tightening down on the edge as she saw Sherlock’s frantic approach—it was obvious someone had already informed him about the injury on his way in.

"Oh, Percy. Percy, Percy, _no_. No, no, no, no.. you're a dancer! This can't happen!"

"It's alright, Sherlock, plenty of dancers recover from leg injuries and dance again after. My position will still be waiting for me once I recover and do my physical therapy."

"But Percy... If I hadn't-"

"No. No, Sherlock. You don't get to blame yourself, this isn't your fault, you hear me!?" Persephone beckoned Sherlock closer, and when he complied, she tucked her hands into the curls by his ears and cradled his face.

“Sherlock, I’m alright. Please. Please don’t be angry with yourself. Just be here with me? Yeah?”

He made a face between a pout and an apology before he nodded and tipped his head forward to rest against his sister’s—their noses touched, and Sherlock closed his stormy eyes. Percy’s eyes flicked up and to the side when an arm wrapped around her waist with a squeeze; her gaze met Mycroft’s, and he gave her a little smile before nudging his nose against Sherlock’s temple in comfort.

Yeah, they’d be alright.


End file.
